


Gig Economy

by MilkyMint



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Human AU, Look it's pretty much a romcom, M/M, its the Shitty Job AU nobody asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-06-29 19:18:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19836817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilkyMint/pseuds/MilkyMint
Summary: Somehow Anthony J. Crowley, High End London caterer, keeps getting booked for the same gigs as a truly horrible stage magician. But maybe the greatest trick of all is to get someone working in foodservice to feel one (1) emotion.





	1. February 18th

**Author's Note:**

> This is heavily inspired by me workig in catering. Some of the details are made up, but probably not the parts you think. Also, if anyone out there wants to beta, please hit me up. I'm a non-native speaker, I don't know how apostrophes work, and it really shows.

Crowley took one last look at his assembled troops. They were, by and large, good people. They didn't deserve this line of work. Nobody did. But through some misfortune, each and every one of them had ended up working for Piger Manus Catering, and they were making the most out of it.  
„Any questions?“ he asked. The newer hires shook their heads, while the seniors kept their face the same attentive blank slate it had been the whole briefing. Crowley didn't mind too much. Once they'd been with the company for a couple months, they could run events like this on autopilot.  
He gave them one last solemn nod.  
„Good, then lets go and do our worst to -“ he was distracted from his pep talk by a familiar figure making its way trough the park. Not an easy feat, Rogers&Wilson Employee Appreciation Festival was a well attended, if uninspiredly named, event, and the tall man had to politely shove his way trough the crowd filling the small park, before finaly joining his pack.  
“He’s back, he’s back!” Rowan whispered through a wide grin, and Crowley managed not to slump in front of his underlings.  
“Oh no. Seriously!? Again? Him?”  
“Who is back?” asked Juniper, who had only started working for the company two weeks ago, and who looked around at her colleagues with some concern.  
Crowley didnt have the words to describe the horror she was about to witness, so he said: “Just… just come and watch. But keep the professional face on.” The small gaggle of waiters picked up their alibi bottles, and discretely entered the event tent, just in time to watch the magician with the badly drawn on mustache fumble with a pack of cards until it exploded out over an unimpressed crowd.  
"And that" the poor fool exlaimed at the audience with a manic grin "is what we call the Fifty Two Pick Me Up!"  
Juniper hadn’t been in the business long enough to develop the perfect stoic face, and the horror leaked from her eyes into her voice as she whispered: “Is this supposed to be funny?”  
Crowley, who had been in the business for so long, he could look stoic if lit on fire, gestured towards her wine bottle as if explaining something quite serious about the vintage.  
“We got a betting pool at the office, feel free to join in. Right now odds are in favor of ‘sincere but awful’.”  
They watched as the Fantastic Mr. Fell pulled an elderly and very reluctant rabbit out of a top hat.  
“But maybe this is one of those things mankind isn’t meant to know.”

When the cateres had been dismissed from the premises, to be replaced by bartenders, Crowley took the opportunity to share a cigarette at the edge of the park with Ash, banquet manager. He was pulled out of nicotine filled bliss by the sight of a lawsuit waiting to happen.  
“Hey, why is Dumbledork loading our van?”  
Ash shrugged. They were on an official break, and didn't have to care. Crowley on the other hand was liable, and so had to care very much. He stalked over to the loading area.

The magician didn't pay him any attention, he was too busy handing over grey boxes to the man inside the van.  
Crowley took great pleasure in sneaking up and saying, more loudly and a lot closer than was necessary:"That doesn't belong in your hands, bucko!"

Mr. Fell dropped the container he'd been holding with a cacophony of cutlery. Florian, who had been busy stowing away boxes of dirty dishes, stepped out of the van and picked it up, while avoiding eye contact with his boss.  
"I'm sorry!" the magician exclaimed, as he stepped away from the van with both hands raised in surrender.  
Crowley gave him a stern look from behind his sunglasses.  
"Maybe let the professionals handle this."  
The look really worked. The man deflated and wandered off with another mumbled apology, probably never to bother underpaid caterers ever again.  
Crowley hopped into the van and started stowing away the collected chafings and dishes of the day. His people walked up to the van in a neat little row and handed him things, he found the right place to put things. It was a good system.  
But Florian kept glancing off to the side.  
“Is he just sitting there now?” Crowley asked wearily.  
“Yupp.”  
Crowley peered trough the backwindow of the open van door, and saw that the man was indeed sitting on a bench a few feet away, surrounded by various boxes and a small cage holding a sleeping rabbit.  
He sat straight up, like a puppet on a string, hands placed flat on his thighs.  
Just looking at him made Crowleys spine revolt. This was what you'd find in the dictionary next to "good posture". 9 out of 10 Chiropractors would hang Mr. Fells Picture up in their office. The odd one out was the one who kept telling Crowley that he was prefectly fine, just a bit overworked, and he shouldn't worry about the strange cricks and cracks his body made when he tried to walk in a straight line.  
Without the stupid Dastardly Whiplash mustache the guy looked lost. Like a puppy kicked out into the rain.

„Urghh, sorry, this is too pathetic. Peon, take over.“He scanned the loaded boxes and grabbed one of the smaller ones, before making his way over to the human shaped personifaction of rebuffed good intentions.  
"Hey", he said, flopping down on the other side of the bench.  
"Listen, I didn't mean to be rude back there."  
He waited for a moment, but Mr. Fell just stared at him with a mix of confusion and caution.  
“I was just being dramatic. It’s an insurance thing, if you hurt yourself doing work I pay others for,” he took the opportunity to glare at his staff around the van, who pretended to stop listening, and got back to work, “there will be hell to pay.”  
The magicians face suddenly cleared up, his smile like the sun emerging behind a cloud.

“ Oh, I didn’t even think about that. I just thought I'd help out while waiting for my taxi. You people always work so hard. You know, whenever I see those spiffy uniforms, I just know that everyone's day is about to get a little bit better. ”  
Crowley searched for some hint of mockery in the broad smile, but either the man was painfully earnest, or he’d just discovered one of the greatest actors of the century.  
“That might be the best compliment we’ve ever gotten. Remind me to put it on our website. I'm Anthony J. Crowly, by the way. I run this whole mess of a catering firm. Have an eclair.”  
He held out the box over the neutral empty space of the bench as a peace offering. But the magician didn't reach out.  
“Are you sure that’s alright?”  
“Well, since the client paid for all the food they ordered, technically we have to destroy anything they dont eat or want to keep.”  
Crowley watched the familiar look of horror of someone who had never worked foodservice spread over the mans face, and quickly went on:  
“Practicaly it means we all eat leftovers for the next two days. Which, for all I care, still means the food gets destroyed. Just don’t nark to the health inspector about it.”  
But the magician still hesitated.  
“Think of it as saving a poor innocent dessert from the trashcan. Because my staff is so high on sugar, they physically can not eat any more. ”  
Mr. Fell finally reached into the box and tooka confectionery.  
"Oh," he exlaimed after one bite." This is simply delicious!"  
Crowley allowed himself a smug smile.  
“Yeah it is, because” he raised his voice “Florian doesn’t have any redeeming qualities outside the patisserie, so he’s got to make that count.”  
Florian didn’t even bother to turn around from the van, but made a very rude gesture in their vague direction.  
“Chefs”, Crowley muttered, “You cant live without them, you can’t throw them into the ocean.”  
“Sounds like a stressful line of work.”  
“Hmm-hmm, I haven’t slept in two months. But I knew what I was getting into. And I doubt the stage magician work-life balance is any better. ”  
“Oh, it's not. But I don't have to coordinate people, and foods, and, and," he pointed at the van "and transportation. I'm a one-man-operation. Wait, I got a card,” he said and patted down the excessive pockets on his outfit.  
Crowley wondered if this counted as cheating in Ilusionists' circles. Surely having this many pockets to miraculously disappear things into was considered entry level.  
But he took the offered card and frowned at the whimsical design.  
“Aziraphale Fell, Magnificent Magic for all Occasions?” he tried out the hideously over serifed font.  
“Huh, I thought that was a stage name. It sounds like a magician.”  
The magician gave the resigned chuckle of someone who had had this conversation many times.  
“No, my family is just a, well, just a delightful mix of eccentric and old fashioned. What about you? Is 'Antony J. Crowley your actual name, or a nome de plume?"  
Corwley responded without thinking.  
“Real name, and I can’t even blame my family. I picked it myself when I dumped them.”  
“You broke up with your family?”  
Shit. Too forward, too fast.  
“Oh, it was mutual. We were not good for each other.” he said with a lightness that, after decades of practice, almost didn’t sound forced.  
But it was no use, the mood had shifted. Crowley tried to think of any excuse to change the topic, to leave, to be swallowed up by a hole in the ground.  
Luckily he was given an opportunity when the van doors slammed shut and Holly, magnificent, beautiful, reckless driver, immediately sped off.  
He almost jumped off the bench.  
“Well, gotta go, if I’m not there when they unload it'll to be a mess. But hey, good talk, see you around!”  
And he quickly walked away, without looking around, aiming for the side street he'd parked his car in.  
He barely caught the "nice talking to you" shouted after him, but didn't react in case he'd just imagined it.


	2. March 3rd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: it is hot as jalapenos out here, so if this reads melty, it is because I am melting.

The cheerful gurgle of the Champaign fountain cut off with a noise like a lonely seal. Aziraphale looked up from his prop case and saw that caterer... What was it, Cudly? Crawly? Crowley? Crowley! Standing next to the tiered silver tower, holding a plug and looking at the whole contraption with skepticism. The plug clattered on the table, and Crowley turned slowly, surveying the ballroom in all its frilly and pastel glory.  
When Aziraphale was reasonable sure he was in eyeline, he smiled and gave a small wave. He got a nod in return.  
"Hi, again. Fell, right? First flopped wedding?"  
No point in small talk, then. Aziraphale closed his case and straightened up.  
"Luckily, yes. I don't do weddings, usually. Does this happen often?"  
"Not as often as TV would make you believe. If they get as far as the actual day, they've payed a planner, rented a location, hired excellent catering, and have all their friends and family there. If they have doubts at that point, they usually go through with it just to save face. And get divorced in a month, like adults."  
He poked at a giant pink and green flower arrangement.  
"Urgh, look at this. Absolutely uninspired. Anyway, it's a rare treat to get the full dramatic runaway bride. Good for her, I guess."  
"Yes." Aziraphale said, carefully staring into the distance.  
"Good for her."  
He really needed to change the subject.  
"How are you getting rid of that?" he asked and gestured towards the still very full fountain.  
"Oh, I won't. That's what I have peons for. Here they come."  
The peons turned out to be two more caterers. A short woman with a smile just a bit too bright for the occasion forced her way through the crowd with an inspiring use of 'excuse me' and elbowwork.  
She was followed by a tall man with a smile that was perfectly appropriate of brightness, and who moved past the mess of people, chairs, and tables with a grace Aziraphale had previously only seen in the shark tank at the aquarium.

Both dropped their smiles once they made it past the small clusters of guests scattered around the dinner tables. Crowley made some vague gestures between them and Aziraphale.  
"Right, Holly, Rowan, you've surely seen the amazing Mr. Fell in action." The magician managed not to panick, even as Holly's smile came back with the force of a floodloght. He thought about taking the two steps it would take to get into handshaking distance, but surely they were all on the clock right now and didn't need to be formaly introduced? He was saved from the dilemma by Crowley turning both of his peons towards the dead fountain.  
"Sadly for us, he can't make this crime agaist good taste disappear, so we'll have to do this the old fashioned way."  
Aziraphale listened with one ear as the trio debated how, why, were, why them, and why in general, they should removed the fixture. He busied himself with his propcase again, he really didn't think he could add anything to that conversation.  
He checked in on his assistant, who was sound asleep. It was probably time to retire the old rabbit, but he just couldn't bring himself to write him out of the act. And what would he replace him with? Getting another pet was out of the question.

The philosophical discussion had reached its conclusion, "Carry it, because we can't bottle it back up can we, outside or the first drain you see, because you are both absurdly strong, because I say so".  
The two designated stalwarts carefully lifted the whole thing, and slowly maneuvered through the hall, with only minor sloshing on the carpet. Aziraphale watched them with a mix of admiration and anxiety. There was a particularly dangerous bit at the entrance, were a scatter of guests had congealed into a clump. Aziraphale could make out the groom-not-to-be in the group. The people surrounding him took turns patting the bewildered man on the back, but his mother didn't look particularly unhappy.  
Crowley apparently only noticed the group once his people had gotten past it.  
"Aww, I'm not walking past the money empty handed. Looks bad. I'm just-" he looked around frantically " I'm just going to hide behind the tacky curtains until they leave."  
Aziraphale handed him the the small carrier housing his assistant.  
"Or you could take Mr.Neckam, that would be helpful. I can't carry all my things at once, and I don't like to leave him unsupervised."  
Crowley took the container and squinted though the slots in the plastic.  
"I thought the name was Harry."  
"Yes, but that's his stage name."  
"Your rabbit has a stage name?"  
"Of course he does, he is a professional! " Aziraphale exclaimed before he could stop himself. He really needed to learn not to say odd things to near strangers.  
But Crowley nodded, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.  
"Fair enough. Let's get moving."

They walked out of the room in silence, Aziraphale with his folding table under one arm and the prop case in the other, Crowley holding the rabbit carrier in both hands as if it was a suspicious backpack that had just started to tick. Both kept their walk brisk and their faces solemn, but calm, and they got past the concerned parties without anyone paying attention to them.  
Once they made it out into the hallway, Crowley fell in step beside him and asked:  
"You got in side the mainhall pretty early, didn't you? Did you hear anything about why she ran? Got any enlightenment to share?"  
"Uuuuuuhhhhmmm" Aziraphale said, really proving his eloquence.  
"You do! Spill it!"  
Well, it was a done deal anyway. He might as well unburden his conscience.  
"Alright. So I might have overheard, not by design of course, they just happened to be talking right next to were I was setting up."  
"Ye-eeess?"  
"And the bride just, well she talked to her friend about how she hated the venue, and the flowers, and the band, but with her fiancés family paying for everything, she didn't get a say, and she just looked so miserable in her dress. So I thought to myself, I thought, if the groom can't even consider his fiancés wishes and preferences on their wedding day, then what kind of foundation is that setting for their future?"  
"Did you only think all that, or did you actually say it out loud to a bride with cold feet?"  
Aziraphale found it wisest not to answer that directly.  
"I just always thought marriage should be about, you know. Mutual love, and respect, and understanding, not a chore to check of a list."  
He made sure to look straight ahead, but he could hear the amusement in the other mans voice.  
"Ohhhh, you are a romantic!"  
"I guess I am."  
"Who made a blushing bride run off on her wedding day!"  
Somehow it didn't really sound like an accusation.  
"I... I suppose I did."  
"At least that explains how someone hired a magician for a wedding. No offense."  
Aziraphale didn't take any, he'd wondered the same thing.

They made it down the narrow stairs by the lobby.  
"You probably shouldn't feel too bad about it," Crowley said as he held open the glass door to the underground car park, and let Aziraphale maneuver trough.  
"I mean, if this was a movie, you'd be the kind figure who sets the protagonist on the path of True Love in the third act. And she'll always wonder if that wise stage magician might have been actually magical. Or an angel, if we're releasing for the Christmas crowd."  
"That is one way to look at it. You really have a refreshing brand of optimism, and- what are you doing? "  
Crowley had stopped beside a parked van and was looking at it with some interest.  
Aziraphale carefully put down his things down in an empty parking space and joined him. The van was... A car. It had four wheels, doors, and presumably, an engine. It was white.  
With his automobile knowledge exhausted, Aziraphale asked: "Is there something wrong with it?"  
Crowley pointed at the hood were the words 'Belle Beel' were written in...Comic Sans? That couldn't be right. It had to be the light down here, no self respecting business would allow such an atrocity on their property.  
"Now why would a company so cheap, they can't even hire someone to design their logo, come to a nice place like this? And then only bring one car?"  
Aziraphale thought for a moment.  
"Rehearsal dinner? That wouldn't be many people. Or maybe they are discussing budget options with the venue or..." But Crowley wasn't listening. Instead he was slowly circling the van, and looking around in the car park.  
When he was back at Aziraphales side, he held the carrier housing Mr.Neckam name out.  
"Can you stand in the doorway for a just a minute?"  
Aziraphale took the rabbit, but didn't move.  
"Why?"  
"I'll explain in a bit, just let me know if someone comes down."

The stairs were empty. He could hear people moving about in the lobby, so he pretended to be very interested in the well being of his sleeping assistant.   
He looked trough the glass door out of the corner of his eyes, but the caterer had vanished.  
After a few minutes he reappeared from behind the van and waved at Aziraphale to join him.  
"And what was this about?" Aziraphale asked him.  
"I used to work for these guys. Proper bastards. I just wanted to leave them a littlesomething to remember me by. And weeeeell, you didn't see anything, did you? So, hypothetically speaking, if someone, really could have been anyone, no cameras down here for some reason, had let the air out of the tires, you wouldn't know anything about that."  
The van already seemed to sit a good deal lower, and Aziraphale thought he could hear a hiss.  
He looked back at the logo. Comic Sans, really.  
"I guess I wouldn't."  
"Great, then lets get you outside, Angel."  
It was hard to tell by the fluorescent light and through the dark glasses, but Aziraphale could have sworn Crowley actually winked at him before he turning away.  
He watched him walk towards the far end of the garage, whistling a cheerful tune, and only stopping to pick up Aziraphales discarded props, before making his way towards the exit.

Oh.  
Oh, dear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot is coming, but for now I'm just gonna nudge them together. Just nudgy nudge nudge


	3. March 30th

It wasn’t a complete disaster, but it was getting harder to make it look easy.  
Lunch had flown by, Teatime had passed without discernible incident, and by eight thirty, people were settling into the unconcerned dinner of those who had eaten all day long.  
Crowley was good at putting out fires. Screw good, he was fantastic at it. But after a five days of fifteen hour shifts, even his deep well of motivational spite was running dry. Six out of ten temps had cancelled on him, Ash had called in sick with the snivels or something, and an unexpected rainfall (as much as rain in England could be unexpected) meant that people were crammed inside, blocking hallways and making it impossible to get anything done in an efficient way.  
He elbowed his way from station to station, and wondered who designed this place to be so big. At least the golf club who rented the ostentatious house and surrounding greens out for various events were regular clients, so the crew was familiar enough with the floor plan. But of course, because why should anything every be easy, someone had decided to rename all of the rooms.  
What used to be a straightforward numerical system had been replaced with bird names. That could have invoked a pastoral flair, if the namer hadn’t had an actual interest in birds and the desire to let the world know all about it.  
So Crowley checked in with Rowan in the room formerly known as ‘Room 3’, now the 'Wallcreeper’. Rowan was smiling, of course. Rowan was always smiling. But Crowley knew him well enough to categorize. On a scale from the regular 'I smile because it's my job but I'm dead inside' to 'running at you with a knife', the current expression sat at a solid 'I am very tired, do not make my life any harder please'.  
“Main station is fine”, Rowan said as a greeting, “but Holly needs a break soon. You’ll have to do that, I’m busy with the back office. And none of the temps can open a wine bottle.”  
“Great, so I have to do four jobs today, because Ash is a lazy fuck who can’t be bothered to show up for work.”  
“They broke their arm.”  
“It’s not like they do heavy lifting!”  
Rowan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Right. When do we have to be at the anniversary tomorrow again ?”  
“Eleven fucking thirty. So I need the non essentials to leave as soon as possible, and everyone else has to go on emergency overtime.” Emergency overtime was great. It meant that people stayed at work as long as they were needed, but miraculously they’d stay exactly within legal work hours.  
At least according to the sign out sheet.  
“I’ll let them know,” Rowan sighed. Then his smile transformed into #12, still tired, but sincere.  
“Oh, good news though, your friend the horrible Houdini is here.”  
“Who?”  
“The magician?” Rowan made a flourish with his hand, and Crowley felt a penny materialize behind his ear and drop.  
“He’s setting up in old room 7, the new, I don’t know, Nuthatch? The one with the weird chandelier. I left Juniper in charge of the kid’s buffet there. I hope she can handle it. ”  
“If she can’t, we’ll just burn everything to the ground, and nobody would ever know.”  
Rowan considered for a moment, and shook his head.  
“You know it’s too wet for that. But I know a guy whith a bulldozer.”  
Crowley left him smiling placidly at destructive fantasies and went on his next round.

Fill in at the meat carving station so Holly can take a vital break.  
Remind temp waiters to smile.  
Check in on Juniper.  
Dessert area, replace Florian so he can take a smoke break.  
Get coffee.  
Avoid eye contact with client, walk away quickly looking busy.  
Two minute break for coffee and cigarette.  
Get spotted by client.  
Talk to client, explain how no two objects can exist simultaneously in the same space. So if the guests want to be waited on, they must allow the waiters to pass.  
Smile as sincerely as possible.  
Refill the buffet.  
Rinse, repeat, da capo. 

Finally, at 8pm, the contract was fulfilled and they were free to go. Crowley released the temps, but made sure they carried something to the loading area on their way out. What was the point of having temps if you couldn’t make them do the grunt work? He made sure everything else was on it's way, and then threw together the tablecloths in a pile. With his very important, but not very heavy, freight, he made his way into the functional parts of the house, were carpet and crystals were replaced by sensible tile and efficient neon, all the way to the back exit, were the rest of his crew was clustered around the door.

Whoever designed this place (Crowley promised himself to look it up later, so he could curse out the right person) hadn’t taken the humble worker into account. Or at least not the humble worker’s desire to get from the loading bay door to the actual vehicle without being exposed to the elements.  
The two broad steps leading to the door (the words 'servants entrance’ floated up in his sleep deprived brain) were nice and safe, but also meant the van couldn’t actually back up all the way to the door.  
The area between door and van was left open to the rain, and so the caterers loading their equipment would have been drenched, if not for a conspicuous figure standing on the steps, with an oversized canvas garden umbrella in their hands.  
When the magician spotted Crowley approaching with his armful of fabric, he actually beamed.  
“ To get any potential legal issues out of the way, I’m not helping anyone. I’m just standing here, minding my own business, and there are some other completely unrelated people, minding their own business, walking around me.”  
Crowley took in the bright, innocent smile, the slightly damp coat, and the empty umbrella stand out on the lawn.  
“Can’t argue with that.”  
He threw the bundle of dirty tablecloths into the van at Holly, and groaned when she started to fold them up.  
“We do not have time for that! Come on!”  
She grinned at him, and he realized she was joking, another thing they didn’t have time for.  
Holly thunked the cloth in the corner, and started picking her way through the cluttered van into the drivers cabin.  
“What’s the rush? Just idle curiosity of an unconcerned bystander.”  
“We have to get back early today, early start again tomorrow, and there are all these pesky workers rights laws. Apparently some people need sleep? Amateurs.”  
Holly finished her excursion and Crowley barely managed to shut the doors before she sped off.  
“Absolute madwoman.” he said with some admiration as the tail lights disappeared in the rain.  
Rowan pulled up with the minibus, and the rest of the crew piled in, muttering 'thank you’s to Mr… Fell in passing.  
Crowley gestured at Rowan, who let down the drivers window.  
“Do me a favour and drive fast-ish, please? Not Holly fast, but-you know. Take the speed limit as a suggestion? We really need to get everything sorted out today.”  
He thought for a moment and added:  
“And drop Juniper of on your way, she’s got school tomorrow.”  
“It’s fine” a meek voice said from somewhere in the car. “I can help, I can just skip a day, it’s no trouble.”  
“Yes trouble! Big trouble! Rowan? You listen to me, clear?”  
Rowan just smiled, and rolled his eyes, and trundled off.  
“You aren’t going with them?” Mr. Fell asked, startling Crowley. He’d almost forgotten the man was there.  
“I wouldn’t be caught dead in a minibus. And Rowan is a very safe driver, I’ll catch up. Especially if he drops the kid off at home, which he will, with rain like that.”  
“That’s nice.”  
“Ehhhh, not really.”  
He took a long breath. Five days done, two more to go. He still had to talk to the client for final feedback, but right now he could enjoy a minute of idleness. He fished the cigarette pack out of the perfectly sized jacket pocket and lit up.  
“Just capitalistic protection of assets. If she gets trough school plus this job without getting too traumatized, I can set her on a fast track for a team management position. That would make my life a lot easier.”  
“Right.“  
They stood in silence for a minute, the sound of the rain on the roof, the lawn, the umbrella, a comforting soundtrack to a moment of peace.  
"Mr. Fell, I won’t say thank you, because you didn’t actually help us at all in any sue-able way. I’m just going to leave you to your business of standing around.”  
“Please, call me Aziraphale. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to people addressing me like my father. Probably should have come up with a different stage name.”  
“Well, then please call me Crowley. I don’t think anyone has ever called me by my first name in years.”  
He snipped the cigarette out into the rain, but found himself reluctant to leave. What did people who didn’t work together talk about?  
“You recovered from the wedding then?” Fine, still work, but only by a tangent. Barely counted.  
“Oh yes, his is much more my style.”  
“A 90 year old patriarchs birthday party?”  
“Exactly! People of advanced age love me.”  
Crowley didn’t say anything about diminishing object permanence and felt very diplomatic.  
“And of course they tell their families, and I suspect that’s how I end up at children’s parties, and corporate events, and sometimes weddings.”  
So he was self aware enough to know this wasn't a great fit. But you took what you could get, Cowley really couldn't fault him for that. But he also didn't know what to say to that, so he made to leave.

“Well, I just need to go and talk to our client, then I’ll head right back to Mission Control and schedule next month. Maybe bully some of my emergency waiters into coming in tomorrow, if I’m feeling frisky.”  
“I thought you needed an early night in. Early start tomorrow, and all that.”  
“Pfff, those beginners do, but I’m an old pro.”  
They were suddenly illuminated by the headlights of a taxi. It pulled up to the steps, and Airaphale made a  
"Okay, do those just materialise when you need them?"  
"Oh, I always book them in advance," Aziraphale said.  
He held out the umbrella.  
“Hold please.”  
Crowley took it and waited as Aziraphale walked into the house, and came back with the big box full of magic and the little ball full of old rabbit. Crowley walked down the steps with him, but the umbrella was so big, he didn’t need to actually round the taxi.  
Just as Aziraphale reached the door, he looked back up at him over the roof.  
“And, Crowley? Please get some rest.” he said with a gentle smile.  
Crowley watched as the worst magician on the planet pulled off an impressive disappearing act.  
He watched all the way until the taxi turned a corner and he was left alone, holding the giant umbrella, concerned with his suddenly fast beating heart.  
Aw.  
Aw, fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading so far :D  
> 2 Things:  
> 1\. Next update might take a bit longer, we are getting close to actual plot, and I want to make sure I have it properly mapped out. I have some super cute stuff done for the end, and I want to make sure the way there is as good.
> 
> 2\. I did one edit in chapter 1, and not to be mean, but I took out Aziraphales bookshop. It didn't really work with this AU, and the one scene set in it can be just at his house. So upside, we'll go to his house at some point. :D


	4. April 12th

Aziraphale's quiet morning routine was interrupted by the ring of the doorbell. He reluctantly set his mug down on the newspaper he'd been reading and peered out through the window of his office. There was a man in a grey suit standing in front of his door.  
Maybe he could hide, pretend he wasn’t home. As he was thinking that, the man on his doorstep looked up. They made eye contact. All was lost. At least he'd already changed out of his pyjamas.  
Aziraphale trotted down the stairs and opened the front door.  
"Aziraphale! So good to see you!" Gabriel said, with his ivory white smile suggesting that they'd just run into each other by chance. His outfit looked like he’d bought it whole of a mannequin. Stylish, expensive, and without a hint of personality. Aziraphale knew that his brother didn’t pick his own clothes, he went to stores where people did that for him, and it showed.  
"Gabriel," Aziraphale answered with an honest smile he’d spent a lot of time practising in front of a mirror. "Please, come right in." He got the pleasantry out before Gabriel marched in, and made sure to stand in front of the living room door. He really didn't need anyone to see the mess in there, so he gestured down the hallway towards the kitchen.  
The mess in the kitchen wasn’t much better, the island had been pretty much taken over by a mix of reference books and show props, but the table in the little nook was tidy enough.  
"Tea?" Aziraphale offered.  
"Don't bother, I don't have much time."  
"You should have called ahead, I would have tidied up."  
"But I never seem catch you at a good time. Last year I got trough, what, two times out of ten?."  
"Right."  
Because Aziraphale had caller ID.  
“So… What gives me the honour?”  
“I can’t just visit my brother for no reason at all? You know I liked to check in on everyone from time to time. Get some progress reports. Did you hear about Uriel?”  
Of course he had, who hadn’t? Uriels rise through politics had been swift, well publicised, and so clean, the only angle tabloids could find was that maybe she wasn't a real person at all, but a russian spy sent to infiltrate the government with a tailor made back story.  
"Outstanding, a real credit to the family."  
Aziraphale nodded.  
"But you seem busy!” Gabriel said, waving at the state of the kitchen, "That is why your home looks like this, right? What have you been up to?”  
"I've been getting a lot of work, with the weather clearing up. I’ve actually got a gig later today, and I’ve reworked my grand finale, so I can do it without-"  
"Anyway", Gabriel interrupted, "I’m just dropping in to let you know: We are in the process of merging with Macon Holdings."  
Aziraphale kept up an impressive poker face founded on complete ignorance.  
"You understand, of course, that this is strictly confidential information. I’m just letting you know so you can keep your schedule open. We are having a celebration-slash-meet-and-greet October 15th. Everyone will be there, and I want you to show we are down to earth. Our own working man as it where, self-employed and all that."  
"Oh. Oh, I see. You want me to entertain?"  
"No!” Gabriel said quickly, and added in a calmer tone:"No, you should just come and relax, mingle a bit, and not think about work at all. It's not like you have to." Aziraphale couldn't mingle to save his life, and had never been relaxed at parties, but the last bit was true. He had never truly entered the family business, but the family business still provided.  
It had started with old money, the kind where no one wanted to look too closely at how it had been made. Unfortunately, it was also the kind of money that allowed an anxious man to be a self-employed party magician, while providing for hobbies like books, and food, and rent.  
He tried to change the topic, which was not easy. He sometimes, but not as often as probably should, wondered what his brother did when he wasn’t working. Did he have a hobby? Friends? A lover? But you couldn't just ask those things of family members, you were supposed to just know that, shouldn't you?  
"How are you?" he settled on, making good use of his English Literature Degree.  
"I’m amazing, thank you! I ran marathon last week."  
"Oh? That’s nice. Did you win?"  
"It’s a Marathon, Aziraphale. You win it by finishing it."  
"Right." That was a no then.  
They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few more minutes. The oven clock still wasn't on daylights saving time, he really had to figure out how to change that.  
And that was talking to Gabriel. Oh, Gabriel was polite. And charming, and caring, and appropriately politically correct. But even in conversation, it felt like he was giving a press conference.  
Every birthday or Christmas, Aziraphale considered giving him the signed edition of 'How to win Friends and influence People' and every time he decided that he wasn’t prepared to live in the same world with the monster that would create.  
Gabriel abruptly stood up.  
"Well nice catching up with you, we really need to do this more often." Aziraphale made a non-committal noise somewhere in the affirmative range. He escorted his brother outside.  
Gabriel took a few steps down the path, turned around.  
"You know, you should come to my gym sometime. It’s never to late to get in shape."  
"I’ll think about it," Aziraphale lied.  
Gabriel left through the gate and almost collided with a woman jogging down the side walk. He apologized at her and got back into his waiting car.  
The jogger meanwhile turned into the pathway of the neighbouring house, and drew up next to Aziraphale.  
"Your brother is a real tosser."  
"Good morning to you to, Agnes."  
His neighbour wasn’t a snoop, but somehow she always knew more about his life than he was entirely comfortable with. He never told her he had a brother. But she was nice, in that often rude grandmotherly way that didn't care about being polite. And unlike his previous neighbour in the duplex, she never hassled him about the neglected garden, or his playing music during sleepless nights.  
"What did he want?"  
"He invited me to a family party."  
Agnes nodded sympathetically. "How are you going to get out of that?"  
"I don't know. I'll think of something."

By Noon, Aziraphale was still thinking about it as he walked up the parking lot of his next venue. He didn’t want to go to the merger party. But with so much advanced notice, he didn’t see a way out of it. Maybe he could finagle some sort of emergency on the day of. Maybe he could break a leg. But no, that would results in family visits to the hospital, and he’d be unable to pretend to be busy.  
Maybe Agnes could break a leg.  
Or pretend to, he hurriedly added. He’d breach the subject the next time they had their tea and chat afternoon.  
He was pulled out of this morbid line of thinking when a by now familiar figure approached him.  
Anthony J. Crowley (a quick not invasive at all Google search had given no clue to what the initial stood for) was looking suave as usual.  
And he was walking towards him. Oh dear he was walking towards him with intent.  
Aziraphale ran trough his list of possible topics of conversation, but before he could start on the weather Crowley asked:  
"You have some pyrotechnics right?"  
"No, you need a license for those." And they didn’t let you take the exam a fifth time when the fourth involved a tiny mishap that resulted in the cremation of two and a half eyebrows.  
Crowley took a deep breath and said: "Shit. Thanks anyway, " through an extremely forced smile.  
"What’s the problem?"  
"Goo’s gone."  
"Beg your pardon?"  
"The burn goo? The… Look, it comes in little tins, and you light it on fire, and it burns really long, and you put it under the chafing dish so the food stays hot."  
"Wouldn’t things start to burn?"  
"There’s water in the bottom so it’s. I don’t know. Physics." Crowley finished with a vague gesture.  
"I know I put the box in the car, but it’s just gone.”  
"Could it have fallen out? Or maybe someone stole it!"  
Crowley looked at him doubtfully.  
"Look, I have to try and convince these people that lukewarm potatoes are actually a swedish midsummer tradition. If you want to investigate the case of the vanishing goo, knock yourself out Sherlock Holmes.”  
Aziraphale saw himself more as a Hercule Poirot, but didn’t mind too much.  
He watched Crowley hurry away. 

Right. How would a whole carton go missing like that?  
Assuming it hadn’t been left at the headquarter, it would have had to disappear somewhere on the premises.  
Which meant the culprit was likely someone who knew how the business worked. Someone on the inside.  
He watched the caterers unload for a while, counting heads and cross referencing faces and jobs. He'd seen most of these people at a few occasions, some of them even nodded back at him. He waited for them all to circle trough two times, just to be sure, then approached Crowley on the caterer's next round.

"I haven’t seen your patisserie chef, is he still around?" he asked.  
"Florian? No, he’s in a better place."  
"You murdered him?!"  
"He got a nice job in a fancy french restaurant. But I am flattered that that’s your first thought."  
No motive for sabotage then. Too bad.  
But, Aziraphale reminded himself, of course you weren't supposed to look for the motive first. Even if a spurned confectionery creator would have made an excellent suspect.  
How would person, or persons unknown, go about stealing from a van in a private parking lot?  
They would wait for an opportunity, which wouldn't be too hard to come by. The caterers scurried from the house to the car and back like ants, but there were breaks in there. He waited for the next one, walked up to the car, and tapped one of the big plastic boxes still strapped in place.  
"I just stole you," he said to the loot. "Now where are we going?"  
He turned around the parking lot. Walking into the house was out of the question, unless the perp had planned far enough ahead to bring some sort of disguise. But this felt more like a crime of opportunity.  
A car then? It was still a while before the event opening, and the lot was almost empty. Aziraphale's taxi hadn't been able to get in without workers identification. Aside from the two big cars of Crowley's company, there was only one other car parked to the side. Even Aziraphale could tell it was old, but the expensive kind. It was long, and shiny, and black.  
Very suspicious. The kind of car a villain would drive.  
Aziraphale circled the car and peered through the windows. He couldn't see any box, or any suspicious tins, or any sort of thief's tools.  
He marked the car down as a 'pursue later' and continued his walk around the scene of the crime.  
Maybe they had thrown the tins over the wall, to a waiting accomplice. That way the could just stroll back out through the house, without anyone getting suspicious.  
He walked to the wall, gauged the height, turned, and spotted the huge garbage bins tucked in the corner.  
It couldn’t be that easy. The bins weren't locked and when Aziraphale opened the first one, a cardboard box was sitting right on top of a pile of full plastic bags.

Crowley took the recovered box with some surprise.  
"Where did you find it?"  
"In the bin just in the corner. That’s weird though, isn’t it? Who’d go trough the trouble to steal this out of the car and then just dump it? Why not…" Aziraphale trailed off.  
"Are you trying to think of any use this would have other than the very specific intended one?"  
"Hm-hm."  
"I mean, we roasted marshmallows over it once. For science. Tastes awful, but the crunch is good. But that's about all you can do with these little suckers. This was probably just someone playing a prank. Wouldn't worry about it. Let's bring some heat!"  
He started walking away, but stopped after a few steps and turned back to Aziraphale.  
"Hey, just. You know. Good job on the investigation. Really helped out."  
"I was just doing my job."  
"Not even close to your job. But well done anyway."  
Crowley started walking again, but stopped and turned once more.  
"What are you doing tomorrow?"  
The question caught Aziraphale off guard. "Nothing, really."  
"Great, lets get dinner. As payback. Payment. I mean, you can't be a pro bono P.I., that goes against everything they stand for."  
"They do insist on getting their dues."  
"Exactly."

Aziraphale hesitated. He quite enjoyed the casual acquaintance with Crowley he'd developed the past months. Their meetings tended to be pleasant, and short enough that Aziraphale had very little occasion to say something embarrassing.  
But this would technically just be an extension of business, wouldn't it? And he was curious what Crowley wore when he wasn't in uniform.  
"All righ, I've got an open day. Where do you want to go?"

"Great. Awesomesauce." Crowley suddenly loooked down at his wrist." Oh wow, i have to go right now! I'll uhhh, I'll let you know where to met up, okay?"  
And with that he finally walked away for good. Aziraphale waited a moment, to see if he'd come back. He didn't. Aziraphale waited another moment to collect himself.Then he remembered that he was here for his actual job too, and hurried inside himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are rolling. Thanks for reading and commenting so far, really makes my day every time :)


End file.
